


a night for saint and man

by whimsicott



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ceremonial oil as lube, Kind of it’s an AU of what if they met before, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22797316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicott/pseuds/whimsicott
Summary: Jeralt had never fancied himself as a religious man, but whenever he finds the time to, he would find himself here, admiring the statue of Saint Cichol.And then one day, a stranger falls out of the sky. A stranger with the same face of the very object of his adoration.
Relationships: Jeralt Reus Eisner/Seteth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 107





	a night for saint and man

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by [Orenjimaru](Http://twitter.com/orenjimaru).

Despite being the captain of the Knights of Seiros, Jeralt had never fancied himself as a religious man. His job had always been a means to an end for him, and that end was a stable, well-paying job that afforded him a decent life. A job that helped him place a roof over his head and food on his table.

But whenever he finds the time between practice, fights and drinking with his men, he would always find himself here.

Here, in front of the Saint Cichol statue in the Cathedral.

Just this particular statue. Not one of the other three that stood around the small room adjoined to the main hall.

Just the one of Saint Cichol.

This particular day was one of those days. The kind of day where he stood at the base of the statue, looking up towards the carved features of the Saint.

It wasn’t as if he was a fervent believer of Saint Cichol either. He was never here to pray, never here to polish the statue in worship. Whenever actual worshippers arrived, their heads bowed down in respect to all the saints, Jeralt would stand aside, with crossed arms in a corner, and prioritize them over himself.

He was here simply to gaze at the saint’s visage. To study the angles and curves of the marble before him, the way the eyes and nose were carved, the lean body of the statue.

Perhaps the best way to word it was that the statue of the saint captivated him, drawing him in completely.

But a more crude and honest way to describe his actions was simply that he had a huge fucking crush on a saint’s statue.

He sighed. It wasn’t as if he was lacking for company in Garreg Mach. Most days, he was surrounded by the other Knights of Seiros - themselves an excellent bunch of men and women. Even putting them aside, the monastery had enough nearby villages that, if Jeralt so wished, finding a non-monastery- related party to attend or even a date to take to dinner should not be a problem.

There was absolutely no reason for him to crush on a statue, for him to seek solace from its handsome face when he could try to find that in someone who’s not made of a cold slab of marble.

But here he found himself once more.

Here, instead of going to the party Alois was throwing for one of the other knight’s birthdays and perhaps bonding with a handsome man or a pretty lady who was still alive.

Under his breath, he quietly cursed the artist who carved the Saint Cichol statue this beautifully. The artist who cursed his dick, if you will.

Or was it all on Saint Cichol for being good-looking even in the form of a statue? Not that it mattered.

What mattered was not staying too long. Long enough to satisfy that desire in his heart to see the saint but not so long that someone would start suspecting him of ill-doing and plotting some sort of sinful action towards Saint Cichol.

It was a statue artisan entering with polish that reminded him to leave.

The cathedral was always quiet at this time of the day. It was late enough that most would’ve retired back to their quarters. A few devout followers were still practising for the choir performance the next day, but they were concentrating on their song, completely disregarding a knight of Seiros. After all, in this monastery, knights were dime a dozen.

The evening air was chilly as Jeralt stepped out.

It was nearing autumn, he found himself thinking, but it wasn’t like summer evenings were particularly warm at the Garreg Mach monastery.

He made his way down to the bridge that connected the Cathedral to the rest of the monastery. He wasn’t exactly sure yet if he was going to go back to the captain’s room to do more work or to his own room for an early night, but he had had enough of being out of place in a place of prayer.

But he was rudely interrupted mid-step anyway.

From behind him, a behemoth fell, sliding down from the sky, crashing just in front of him and sliding across the thankfully empty bridge.

“What the-” Jeralt muttered, his breath taken away and his voice quiet.  
It took him several seconds before he realized the behemoth was a familiar wyvern. 

He scanned the creature, noticing its injured wings and a large gash down its side.  
He walked closer to the creature, only then to notice that someone was on top of it, bent down and braced for the impact.

“Hey,” he called out to the person -- a man, it seemed, from his silhouette, dressed all in white. He raised the volume of his voice. “Hey!”

The man remained unresponsive.

Jeralt gritted his teeth, walking as quickly as he could without causing further hurt to the creature that had fallen, hoisting himself carefully to the rider’s seat.

“Hey,” he said again as he shook the man’s shoulder.

“Ugh,” the man grunted.

So at least he was still alive. Jeralt sighed in relief.

The man pulled himself up slowly, clutching his forehead as he did so. There were no visible wounds on the man -- a miracle, considering he literally just crashed out of the sky.

Still, Jeralt kept his eyes on him, worried that he might be in a worse state than he seemed. If the stranger was to collapse, he would be ready to catch him and take him to the infirmary.

But it was Jeralt himself who was taken aback, feeling like he could fall on his back.  
His eyes widened when the stranger faced him with unfocused eyes and scratches on his forehead.

The man who fell from the sky was alarmingly familiar.

No, Jeralt knew exactly where he knew the man from. After all, he wore a face Jeralt had just admired in the cathedral minutes earlier.

The face of Saint Cichol, not in marble but in flesh.

Jeralt found himself speechless as he looked at the man, green-haired, with facial hair that matched, and cool green eyes.

He held the saint’s name back on his tongue as their eyes met.

“I need to see Lady Rhea,” the man said. “Can you show me to her?”

Jeralt gulped back. There was no way Saint Cichol was still alive. No way Saint Cichol could exist now, made of flesh and blood with a deep voice that resonated within him.

“Of course,” he croaked out, unsure how to deny a man who literally fell from the damned sky. “I’ll show you to her.”

Unsure how to deny a man that looked like the very object of his adoration.

Fortunately for Jeralt, Rhea knew the man and welcomed him in with a smile. Unfortunately, she had ushered Jeralt out before he could catch a hint of this stranger’s name.

He considered waiting in front of the audience hall. But after five minutes of standing there awkwardly, he thought perhaps having a man he barely knew wait for him like this might be unsettling for the stranger. So he made his way to the captain’s office, biding his time while going over battalion documents.

He kept an ear out for the doors of the audience chamber, but he was met with silence for the good part of an hour.

Jeralt had almost given up on waiting, having finished up the last of these documents, when he heard a knock on his own door.

He glanced up to see the man who fell from the sky.

Here, in the dim light of the captain’s room, the man looked even more like the statue of Saint Cichol. The candles Jeralt lit had given the room a similar quality to the statues room in the cathedral after all -- and the low light made the man look colder and more statuesque.

“Lady Rhea told me you would be here,” the man said with a calm voice. “I just came by to thank you.” 

“Thank me?” Jeralt raised an eyebrow.

“For helping me and my wyvern. For showing me to Lady Rhea,” the man said curtly.

Jeralt had directed the man’s wyvern to the stables, leaving it with a passing half-drunk Alois to take care of, before taking the man to Rhea. He had checked whether or not the man was alright, but he seemed to walk without any issues, his keen eyes observing the monastery and the path Jeralt took him on.

“That wasn’t much,” Jeralt said with a shrug, honestly and sincerely. The man’s stern face betrayed no obvious emotions.

“I did hear from Lady Rhea that you’re the captain of the Knights of Seiros,” the man said. “Still, it isn’t exactly part of your duties to deal with a wyvern accident so kindly.”

“It’s the decent thing to do,” Jeralt replied.

Decent, and probably the only thing he could go through with doing after he was hit with that stupid realization that the man was a flesh and blood version of the statue he had been staring at.

“Well, looks like I’ll be here a while,” the man said. “If there’s an opportunity, I would serve some tea for you.”

“Yeah, that’d be-” Jeralt paused. What would tea with a Saint Cichol lookalike be like? He raked through his brain for a response, settling for a boring one: “that’d be nice.”

“Good. I won’t be disturbing you anymore tonight then, Captain. Good night.” 

“Wait!” Jeralt called out to the man.

His own voice surprised himself.

And when the man turned to him, showing that handsome face, now with a raised eyebrow, he was almost embarrassed and bashful.

“Uh,” he muttered. “You’re staying in the guest rooms, right? Let me show you there.”  
Internally, he praised himself for the quick thinking.

“I guess I would really appreciate that,” the man said. “Thank you, Captain.”

“You can call me Jeralt,” Jeralt waved as he got up, walking right to the side of the man. “What can I call you?”

The man went still and quiet.

Such a simple question, and yet he was thinking through his options.

“Seteth,” the man finally replied, with a small nod meant most likely for himself. “You can call me Seteth.” 

“Right,” Jeralt muttered. “Well, right this way -- Seteth.”

He had to admit, he did quite like that name on his tongue.

“Captain!”

Alois greeted him far too loudly the next morning.

Frankly, Jeralt had no idea how Alois can go out with the rest of the knights, possibly getting blackout drunk with them, and be this chipper the morning after.

But maybe Jeralt was just tired that morning. After all, he spent most of the night in an uncomfortable half-awake half-asleep state. He wanted to sleep -- he really did -- but his mind kept reminding him of the encounter he had the day before.

Seteth. He conjured up the name in his mind again. Seteth, of possible relation to Saint Cichol, he reminded himself.

“Alois,” he greeted. Or, at least, a guttural sound came tumbling out of his mouth in some form of intended greeting. Then, shaking his head to get a bit of the sleepiness out, he looked at the other knight. “How’s the wyvern I left with you?”

“Badly injured,” Alois said, expressing his feelings regarding this with a frown. “But the carers said she will be fine, given a few weeks.”

That was good. A wyvern’s death is difficult for its riders and all involved, and Jeralt wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

But the wyvern needing a few weeks to recover most likely meant that Seteth would be around for a bit. 

“That man you were with,” Alois continued. “He’s here to see Lady Rhea, right?”

Jeralt narrowed his eyes at Alois. He was sure he had not spilled this information, and neither had Seteth. Alois, noticing the look Jeralt was giving him gave a hearty laugh.

“I've seen him several times before! Usually by the audience chambers,” he explained. “He stands out, you know, with that green hair and all, so it’s pretty hard to not notice him.”

Jeralt nodded. It was true that Seteth definitely stood out even without any comparison to a piece of marble. After all, green hair was exceedingly uncommon in Fodlan, with the colour associated with their Pope Rhea on top of that, it wouldn’t be odd for a Knight of Seiros to take notice of such a guest.

But Jeralt himself hadn’t.

Granted, he had no real reason to lurk around the audience chambers unless Rhea called on him, and the monastery was a large enough place that he could have missed Seteth all this time.

Like Alois said, green hair stood out. There was no way he would forget seeing someone with that hair colour, especially not if Seteth was dressed the way he was when Jeralt met him yesterday, all in white and gold.

“Do you know who he is?” Jeralt asked. 

Alois shrugged.

“No one knows anything. The other knights gossip but they’re pretty-” Alois gestured with his hands. “Unsavoury.”

Jeralt could imagine. Not all of the Knights of Seiros were completely devoted to the faith, to the pope. Some had casual faith -- the level most of Fodlan were at.  
Hell, Jeralt was like that, even if he wasn't the type to make dirty jokes at anyone else’s expense, much less that of his boss.

“Do you think he looks familiar?” Jeralt tried with Alois.

Alois scrunched up his face, his growing mustache seemingly wiggling as he did so.

“No?” Alois answered, like this was a graded test and he was anxious of getting the answer wrong. Then, as if he was sure now, he nodded to himself and spoke again, more confidently. “No, not at all.”

Jeralt supposed not everyone stared at the face of a statue in their free time. With how high the statue stood over people, you did have to strain to really study the face. Most were probably more familiar with the saints’ marble legs.

He should’ve expected that answer.

“Why, do you think he’s suspicious?” Alois said, suddenly alert as if waiting for instructions from Jeralt. 

Jeralt snorted.

Suspicious?

That wouldn’t be quite how he put it.

 _Haunting_. That was how he would describe Seteth at that point in time. Haunting, because that very evening after his conversation with Alois, Jeralt’s mind was on images of Seteth. His mind tried to trace the lines of Seteth’s face, comparing it to the figure of Saint Cichol.

Haunting, because even after sleep took Jeralt, Seteth’s face continued to remain in his dreams. Their meeting looping in each fitful sleep. Each time, he did something different.

A kiss, as he helped Seteth off the wyvern.

An embrace, as he led Seteth to Rhea’s audience chamber.

Or something more -- the kind of intimacy Jeralt was not entirely alien to, yet had not thought about for so long. The pin-to-the-bed, the hands-roaming-over-Seteth’s-body kind of intimacy.

The kind that was enough to give Jeralt morning wood the morning after.

“Shit,” Jeralt muttered.

Restless at the break of dawn, still thinking of the same man as he had when he went to sleep. And when he awkwardly reached out to stroke his own cock, he thought of nothing else but him.

Seteth wasn’t exactly a common sight around the monastery, but then again, as Jeralt already knew, the monastery was a rather large place.

He knew where Seteth’s room was, but he figured it would be a little creepy to go knocking on the door of a guy he barely knew, especially because he was infatuated with said almost-stranger.

It wasn’t until a few days later that he finally ran into Seteth. Genuinely ran into Seteth. Predictably, it was at the stables where Seteth’s wyvern was resting.  
The large creature crooked its neck against Seteth’s outstretched palm; the man smiled gently. 

“Looks like she’ll be okay,” Jeralt said by way of greeting.

“Yes,” Seteth replied quietly, he turned to Jeralt, his expression remaining stern, yet was oddly soft around its edges.

It brought a smile to Jeralt’s face. But he quickly shook off all the silliness from his face. Or at least, he hoped he did.

“How are you finding Garreg Mach?” He asked, then felt silly for asking, remembering that Seteth had been here many times before, at least according to Alois.

But Seteth didn’t react like it was a stupid question. He gave a small nod.

“It’s always nice this time of the year,” Seteth replied.

“You think so?” Jeralt asked with his eyebrows furrowed. “Autumn isn’t exactly Garreg Mach at its best.”

Tensions were always high around this time, with the Battle of Eagle and Lion around the corner. That much was reflected in the students who acted up a little more than usual, who were a little louder. Besides, autumn meant unpleasant wet weather and dead leaves littering the ground.

“I quite like it,” Seteth shrugged. “Am I in your way?”

Jeralt shook his head. “I just wanted to check on your companion here.” 

Seteth looked at him curiously. “You’re worried?”

“I saw how bad her wounds were,” Jeralt explained. That much was true. He happened to have some free time and there was some sort of event today that filled up the cathedral, which would make Jeralt’s time with the statue awkward and limited.  
Besides, he had been thinking of Seteth more than the statue of Saint Cichol recently.

That was what led him to this wyvern.

“I still owe you tea,” Seteth said, crossing his arms, but there was still that softness on his face.

“You really don’t have to worry about it,” Jeralt waved it off.

“I insist,” Seteth said. “How about tomorrow? In the afternoon.”

Jeralt ran his schedule in his head. He supposed he could throw whatever he had tomorrow afternoon at Alois.

He nodded.

“If you say so,” he said, trying to come off as more nonchalant than he actually was. “I won’t say no.”

Alois had not questioned him when he was asked to take over Jeralt’s duties that afternoon. He had, however, made some all-too-cheerful comments.

“Do you have a date, Captain?” He had asked, with his eyes large and bright. “You haven’t gone on any in a long while! I want to hear all about it.”

But they both knew that even if Jeralt were going for a date, he wouldn’t tell Alois anything about it. Alois might tell him anything during their small talks, but Jeralt kept his personal affairs to himself.

Which was for the best, because while Jeralt wasn’t sure how tea with Seteth would be, he was sure it wouldn’t be anything he would want to talk about with Alois.  
Still, Alois always played his part. And Jeralt in turn played his, a playful scoff in response to Alois’ question before leaving the barracks.

Seteth waited for him in the gardens. Usually full of students, Jeralt had suggested a time when they would all be in class and Seteth had taken up his suggestion.

Besides the tea, Seteth had set up some plain biscuits as well. Nothing fancy. Quite the contrary -- they were conservative biscuits most anyone would be able to enjoy; a choice Jeralt guessed Seteth had made because they didn’t know each other well enough and these were safe.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Jeralt said. Again, he tried to keep his voice cool, but he ended up sounding gruff instead as he took a seat across from Seteth.

“Not at all,” Seteth said. He paused, his elegant fingers hovering over the teapot. “I didn’t know what you like, so I picked my favourite tea, I hope you don’t mind.”

“What’s your favourite?”

“Four-spice blend,” Seteth answered. He held up a paper bag, no doubt containing the leaves.

Jeralt wanted to make a comment on how that was one of the more expensive teas, one he had never tried before as he had always settled for the cheapest the merchants had to offer, but he didn’t quite know the etiquette on that.

So he simply nodded, leaning back on his chair. He watched Seteth as the other man poured them each a cup quietly. The gentle aroma of the tea filled his senses, and this outdoor setting was perfect because it seemed to blend perfectly with the familiar scents of a Garreg Mach autumn.

Seteth settled himself across from Jeralt with the tea served.

Jeralt picked the cup up carefully -- it was almost too dainty for him, too fragile, much unlike the swords and spears and axes he was used to, ill-fitting in his hands. For a second he wondered if his cup was different from Seteth's because Seteth’s cup seemed to look perfect in his hand.

But their designs were exactly the same, and Jeralt knew it was because this was more Seteth’s scene than his own.

It didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy this.

He could -- at least, he could definitely enjoy how elegant Seteth was as he enjoyed his tea.

“I personally think this tea is the perfect blend,” Seteth said as the rim of the cup parted from his lips, his words catching Jeralt slightly off guard.

“Yeah,” Jeralt managed in reply. He didn’t know enough about tea to really tell what the perfect blend would entail, but Seteth’s choice was warm and sharp and altogether not too bad.

He segued into the next part of their conversation inelegantly.

“I heard you visit Garreg Mach often,” he said.

Seteth was a conversation topic he would rather have.

But the other man’s thin smile showed that perhaps that wasn’t exactly Seteth’s favourite topic. “I wouldn’t say often,” he replied anyway. “Once or twice.”

“So you’re a friend of Lady Rhea's?”

This made Seteth pause. The lines on his face seemed to dissect this question so completely. Not that Jeralt blamed him for this -- relationships can be complex -- and with the pope of Fodlan’s biggest religion? Perhaps even more so. Especially when the question was asked by said pope’s knight captain.

“We’ve known each other for a long time,” Seteth opted for. “I suppose it would worry you and the other knights to have a sudden visitor like me. I mean from a safety standpoint.”

“It’s different,” Jeralt said. “But I’m not worried about it.”

“You did take me straight to her,” Seteth gave a low chuckle. “Despite my rather unusual entrance.”

“I’ve been doing this kind of job for a while,” Jeralt replied with a shrug. He took another sip of his tea, but he sheepishly put his cup down when he found it empty, letting it make a small clicking noise against the saucer. “I can tell when someone is untrustworthy.”

“So I’m trustworthy,” Seteth noted flatly.

“You’re,” Jeralt paused. “Not dangerous. At least not to Lady Rhea.”

This seemed to amuse Seteth more than Jeralt intended. Or perhaps the other man looked amused at Jeralt’s poor attempt to save face over trying to drink from an empty cup. He said nothing, however, as he poured another cup of tea for Jeralt.  
Tea that Jeralt gulped down almost instantly. The portions for these cups were truly small.

Seteth refilled the cup once more, and Jeralt found himself slightly bashful over this. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and this time, his finger remained at the handle of the cup without picking it up.

“I’m not wrong,” Jeralt mumbled.

“What?”

“I’m not wrong about you being not dangerous.”

Seteth considered this for a short while before nodding.

“You’re not,” he said. “But you should drink your tea. I can make more if you end up downing the whole pot.”

Jeralt laughed.

Partly at his poor etiquette.

Partly to hide how his eyes might look at Seteth.

Tea time with Seteth became increasingly frequent. Seteth avoided talking too much about himself, but it wasn’t as if Jeralt was the most talkative about his own life.

Unlike Seteth, however, it was because Jeralt wasn’t anyone particularly exciting. He had picked up the sword young and lived by it since -- a straightforward story heard many times over. On the other hand, Jeralt had convinced himself that Seteth had some insane story to tell if he wished -- he just did not.

But it wasn’t as if their small talks weren’t enjoyable.

Seteth always picked their tea and their biscuits. Jeralt had gone along with it, nodding along to whatever Seteth had to say about his choices for the day.

Meanwhile, Seteth’s wyvern’s recovery seemed to be going relatively well. Occasionally, they would meet at the stables first to check on the creature that seemed obviously attached to her master. Slowly though, she began to look at Jeralt warmly -- or at least, that was how Jeralt decided to see it.

Jeralt wasn’t sure where Seteth went when Jeralt was working. Once, he caught a glance of Seteth leaving the audience chambers in a hurry, but with Alois and some of his other knights with him, discussing their latest security detail, Jeralt could not follow.

Besides, curious as he may be about Seteth, he definitely did not want to seem desperate or weird around him. No, because he was interested in Seteth, that was the last thing Jeralt wanted to do.

After all, Seteth kept extending invitations to Jeralt for tea. A simple “let’s do this again sometime” after their sessions that Jeralt kept nodding to and accepting without a second thought.

“You became friends with that Mysterious Stranger,” Alois said. He had tried to keep his tone neutral and matter-of-fact, but Jeralt could hear the teasing that Alois tried to keep veiled. The amusement Alois had at Jeralt. The implication, really, that Jeralt might have a crush.

And Jeralt might, but Alois did not say it out loud anyway, so he shrugged and told Alois to go back to work.

The stables and gardens had been their place to meet, so much so that Seteth became synonymous with this place for Jeralt. So much so that when he walked past the gardens with students laughing among autumn leaves, he let himself smile, just a little and all for himself as he thought of the place quiet and empty with nobody but himself and Seteth and the now familiar aroma of the four spice blend tea.

And with the stables, he found himself drawn to the wyvern every time. And whenever he saw Seteth there he would smile as well. This time, not just for himself but for the man in front of him, who would let his stern expression go and give Jeralt a smile of his own.

“She’s healing up well,” Jeralt said as he approached, his throat slightly dry. A side-effect of talking to his crush – he had realized this when he was young and fell madly in love with a girl from a village. Or at least, that was what it seemed like back then, even if he could barely remember her face now.

“She is,” Seteth said as he stroked the snout of his wyvern. “Looks like I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“Wh-,” Jeralt let out a noise, quickly holding himself back as he realized what Seteth meant.

Seteth’s extended stay at Garreg Mach was because of his injured wyvern, Jeralt remembered right there and then. And looking at the healing scar on the wyvern’s back, he realized now that there would soon be no reason for Seteth to stay. He would soon be able to find his way home, wherever home may be for the mysterious green-haired man.

“That’s-” Jeralt started. He then mulled over his words a little more. “It’s good you can go home, then.” 

“Yes,” Seteth replied simply. He looked longingly away from Jeralt and into the wyvern’s eyes.

But he was thinking of a different place.

Of home, Jeralt supposed. Of the place Seteth wanted to be.

Where he may have someone, even, waiting for him.

Jeralt pulled his smile back onto his face, burying any selfish thoughts of keeping Seteth with him. Seteth looked at him then, and softly he spoke.

“Would you care for tea?”

Jeralt replied, surely and easily.

“Of course.”

“You’ve been in a-” Alois started, paused, smiled awkwardly, then started again. “A mood.”

Jeralt grumbled back incoherently. He knew Seteth has to go home, even if Seteth told him nothing of what home was like. He knew, from the very beginning, that 

Seteth was never meant to stay at Garreg Mach permanently.

And he could definitely tell from how Seteth looked around the monastery, from the way Seteth waited on his wyvern and looked into her eyes, from the way he spoke softly as he relished the warm tea they shared, that home was where Seteth wanted to be.

Jeralt couldn’t be selfish, so Jeralt said nothing but affirmations for Seteth going home.

But Alois was right. Alois was often right about these things, which was sort of annoying, but he was still right.

Jeralt had been in a mood.

He tried to keep it away from his work, of course. Jeralt was captain and a captain had to be professional, but it must’ve showed with how grumpy he was when people did things wrong and from how strict he was when dealing with his men.

Probably, it showed with how little he socialized with them recently. Although he supposed that had not seemed new by this point, with him spending so much of his time in the afternoon with Seteth and spending his evenings catching up with paperwork as his men went out to the nearby villages.

Though now he would turn them down gruffly even when he didn’t have paperwork to catch up on. Evenings were spent back at the cathedral.

With the statue of Saint Cichol.

He had not been here as much since Seteth arrived. He wondered then, if he had transposed the image of Saint Cichol onto Seteth. That the resemblance was nothing but his own delusions due to the perfect timing of Seteth’s fall with Jeralt’s reverence of the statue’s form.

But no. After seeing more of Seteth, and then seeing this statue, he realized the resemblance was indeed there. Uncanny and strange.

Though now the statue seemed almost lacking to Jeralt. Its cold features did not quite match up to Seteth’s, purposely twisted into stern lines when he was not as rough as he wanted to seem. Not as cold as the words the knights had said about the mysterious guest.

The statue of Saint Cichol was unsatisfactory, Jeralt realized. And he found himself finding Seteth in the cold marble instead of the saint in Seteth.

Still, he stood in the dim light, alone as the last of the devotees left, as the artisans left, as the candles in the main hall of the cathedral burned out.

Then he headed back, wondering, as he crossed the still-damaged bridge, whether he would see Seteth there. Whether he would run into the other man in the dark monastery so that he could see the face he really wanted to see.

It was one such evening when his wish, if one could call it that, came true. One such evening, when the wind was cold enough it could almost be winter, and the moon barely shone behind thick clouds. One such evening where, like many others, Jeralt found himself at the foot of the statue of Saint Cichol, finding the features he used to find so enchanting, lacking, finding Seteth in its form.

One such evening when he heard the clearing of a throat in a room where no one was supposed to be.

“I thought it was you,” Seteth’s voice interrupted his gazing at the statue. The other man stood in the dim light of the night-time cathedral, arms crossed as he looked straight at Jeralt.

He wore a quiet smile that Jeralt had grown familiar with. That Jeralt had grown absolutely fond of.

“What are you doing here?” Jeralt asked, the words tumbled out of his lips without his control over them.

He had never seen Seteth at the cathedral. Not since the day Seteth crash-landed on the bridge.

“Looking for you,” Seteth said with a small shrug. “I went to your office but you weren’t there, and one of your knights told me that you’re often here.”

“Small with a moustache?” Jeralt asked.

“Yes,” Seteth nodded.

Alois, then. So Alois knew where Jeralt went in the evenings. The thought embarrassed Jeralt a little, but that wasn’t important right now. Not with Seteth in front of him. He cleared his throat in an attempt to get rid of that dry feeling, but it refused to go away.

It would keep refusing to go away as long as Seteth was in front of him and he still had this damned crush on the other man.

“Do you need me for something?” Jeralt asked, his voice sounding more hoarse than he liked. “I just wanted to see you before I leave.”

Jeralt stayed still. He looked at Seteth carefully.

He knew today would come, eventually.

“You’re going home?” He asked, his voice almost a whisper.

“Yes,” Seteth replied. “Tomorrow. It’s getting cold and I feel it’s best I make the journey before winter.”

“Yeah,” Jeralt managed. “Yeah, that’s smart.”

Seteth walked closer to him, unfolding his arms as he crossed towards where Jeralt stood under the statue.

He looked up at Saint Cichol.

Here, Jeralt could see how similar Seteth truly was to the statue. Seteth was flesh and blood, of course.

Seteth had more expressions, more life than the statue. But their features were truly similar -- their profiles following the exact same line.

“I’m sorry it’s sudden,” Seteth said softly without looking at Jeralt. While still looking at Saint Cichol. Jeralt wasn’t sure how to read Seteth’s face then. He had grown a little better at understanding Seteth over the last couple of months, but the Seteth in front of him then was different.

He dared to reach out for Seteth’s hand, his rough fingers brushing against Seteth’s own. Seteth’s hand was cold, and Jeralt wondered if he had walked around the monastery in the chilly autumn night waiting for him. Jeralt wondered, if that was the narrative he wanted to believe.

But Seteth’s hand fitted in his, letting Jeralt hold it clumsily.

“You want to go home,” Jeralt said, words meant to remind himself of that rather than to express anything to Seteth.

“I have a-” Seteth paused, chuckled awkwardly, then clenched tighter at Jeralt’s hand as he decided. “A little girl, waiting for me alone at home.”

Jeralt bit down on his lower lip. This was the first time he had heard of it. This was the first time Seteth truly talked of home. This was when Jeralt understood the look in Seteth’s eyes when he spoke of it.

“She must miss you,” Jeralt said. Seteth glanced at him then, their eyes meeting, their hands clenching down on each other. “You must miss her.”

There was another pause, then a sigh.

“I do,” Seteth said. “But...”

His face scrunched up as he searched for words.

“Thank you. For the last few months,” Seteth said, his words seeming almost careful. “It would’ve been difficult to stay here without you.”

“Hey,” Jeralt let out a small laugh. “You’re the one who kept treating me to tea and treats. I should be the one to thank you.”

Seteth said nothing more to this. He turned away to look at the statue of Saint Cichol.

“So, I didn’t take you as particularly devoted,” he said. “I didn’t think to look here before that knight of yours told me to.”

Jeralt laughed, this time unrestrainedly. It echoed against the walls of the small chamber.

“Devoted? Me?” He said, amused, even if he knew where Seteth had gotten this from. “I wouldn’t say so, no. No offense if you are, but I don’t think I’ve prayed for a while.”

“Not this year?” Seteth guessed, his voice was flat but betrayed a small hint of amusement. 

“Definitely not this year,” Jeralt confessed easily.

It was easy to talk to Seteth, even if both of them had never talked about who they were before the monastery during their tea sessions. At least, it had grown easier -- easier, even, than Jeralt with his men.

He shall miss Seteth, he knew. He had always known.

“I’m guessing you’ve to rest for tomorrow,” Jeralt said, filling the silence between them before Seteth.

“Yes,” Seteth said. “I suppose.”

But he made no move to leave. Made no move to let go of Jeralt’s hand.

He inched closer instead, hesitantly, awkwardly, but until they were side by side, their clothed arms against each other's, their faces close as they turned to each other.

And perhaps it was the chilly night, perhaps it was the strange void he felt when Seteth said he was leaving tomorrow, perhaps it was this room, with the saints watching over them, with Saint Cichol right in front of them, but Jeralt bridged the distance between them and closed it with a kiss.

As soon as Jeralt felt Seteth’s lips against his, he expected Seteth to pull away. To push him away and for him to be told he'd ruined what they had.

But none of that happened. Seteth pressed closer to him, leaned into the kiss. He parted his lips when Jeralt’s tongue pushed against him, like he would’ve been the one to ask if Jeralt did not.

Here, in the dim orange light, Jeralt let himself indulge in Seteth’s cool skin. He let himself tighten his grip on Seteth’s hand even further, not wondering if he would bruise Seteth’s fair skin, letting himself act with the desperation of a man who knew that what he wanted would inevitably slip away come morning.

Jeralt did not want them to part, and it seemed like neither did Seteth as he kissed back just as ferociously as Jeralt had begun, venturing past the line of their relationship they maintained in the past few weeks.

But they did part, finally, naturally. Rough breathing filled the chamber as they did, as they gasped for air as they looked into each other’s eyes. Jeralt’s own line of sight wandered then to Seteth’s now wet lips, parted slightly as he took in air.

“I wanted to do that for a while,” Jeralt said, quietly. “I’m-s”

He paused. He pulled a smile.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you can tell you don’t have to be,” Seteth murmured.

He didn’t have to be, Seteth assured with his actions, leaning in and planting a chaste kiss on Jeralt’s lips.

It was only that second time that Jeralt managed to process the sensations against him instead of being feverishly blind in his want. When he can process how soft Seteth’s lips were -- soft and firm and unlike the girls Jeralt had kissed before. Seteth was cold and smelled of the musk and spice that had grown familiar to Jeralt.

It was nothing like how Jeralt imagined kissing Seteth would be. Nothing like his fleeting dreams of Seteth. But it was everything he wanted at that every moment. Again, he pushed his tongue past Seteth’s lips, and Seteth joined with him, their tongues a tangled mess against each other.

Each kiss was deeper, longer than the last. Each kiss let Jeralt take in every essence of Seteth, the taste and sensations he did not even know could exist before this. The taste and sensations he did not want to live without after this.

They parted as Seteth gently pushed Jeralt’s chest away. His eyes glassy as he looked at Seteth, his lips red from the kisses, his breaths arrhythmic, jagged.  
Seteth was beautiful in the dimly lit room. Seteth was beautiful in front of Jeralt.  
Jerald could watch Seteth all evening. Could gaze upon him forever, like the way he felt towards the Saint Cichol statue before.

But he did not. He wasted no time, in fact, in drawing Seteth close, hugging Seteth, letting Seteth bury his face in Jeralt’s broad shoulder. Feeling Seteth’s arms around him, hands clasped behind his back.

He did not want Seteth to go, but those were the exact words that could not form on his tongue, could not spill from his lips.

Jeralt hoped that this was enough to tell Seteth what he thought. He hoped holding Seteth was enough.

Taking in a deep breath, he took half a step back from Seteth. Slowly, he closed the distance between him and Seteth’s clothes, unbuttoning them carefully and at a painfully leisurely pace, giving Seteth every chance to stop him.

A chance Seteth did not take, even as he watched Jeralt unbutton his buttons. He was slightly quicker with the second button, then the third.

Seteth’s hand remained at his waist, keeping them close as Jeralt made short work of his clothes. As Jeralt’s hands snuck under Seteth’s top, desperate to feel more of Seteth’s skin.

Like his lips, Seteth’s skin was cold. His heartbeat felt faint under Jeralt’s hand. If Seteth wasn’t in front of him, breathing, in front of him with those eyes that made him look as if he wanted this as much as Jeralt did, then he might’ve thought that Seteth was no more alive than the Saint Cichol statue.

Jeralt pulled down the top part of Seteth’s robe; Seteth helped by moving his arms, following Jeralt’s rhythm. When it fell around Seteth’s waist, still held slightly aloft by the belt, Jeralt took a second to admire Seteth’s skin.

Unlike the smooth marble of the statues, Seteth’s skin was marked and scarred in odd places, marks so indeliberate and natural. Alive, in a way a statue could not be. He pushed Seteth along until Seteth’s back was against the platform at the base of the statue.

Then, he leaned down and began to trail kisses down his chest. He kissed the scars, one by one, gently and tenderly, much unlike the kisses he shared with Seteth earlier. He took in the way they felt against his lips, trying to remember each and every one of them.

“Someone might come in,” Seteth said, a half-hearted objection that was proper to say, but his actions were contrary to them. He ran his hands through Jeralt’s short hair, steadying himself from his pleasured shivering by tugging against it.

“No one does at this time,” Jeralt said as he glanced up at Seteth, his face leaned close to Seteth’s chest.

And Seteth nodded, like that reassurance from Jeralt was more than enough.  
Maybe he simply wanted it to be enough, like how Jeralt wanted so badly to believe it even if he wasn’t actually entirely sure.

There was something improper about doing this in a cathedral, and especially in the saints’ statues chamber, but Jeralt did not stop. Seteth, surprisingly, did not stop him.  
It was Seteth leaving the next day that drove Jeralt, and the same thing might have driven Seteth in the same way. This was their last night before Seteth disappeared. Before their tea times stopped. And more than believing the cathedral was empty at this time of the night, Jeralt wanted to believe that their sessions would resume sooner rather than later.

Yet, unlike the former, he found that harder to believe in.

Jeralt placed another kiss on Seteth’s chest, this time against a large cut under his ribs before he pulled himself up again. Looked at Seteth wordlessly.

Slowly, he pressed himself closer to Seteth, undoing Seteth’s belt. The top part of the robe fell, dragging the rest with it. He looked at Seteth then, half-naked and beautiful. Scarred all over his chest, yet that made him even more attractive than the smooth, flawless form of a statue.

Seteth, underneath the statue of Saint Cichol, so similar in features yet so different.  
Unhooking Seteth’s pants, Jeralt pressed his hand against Seteth’s half-erect member as he took Seteth’s lips once more in a desperate kiss.

Jeralt stroked up the length of Seteth’s cock, gently, all fingertips until he reached the upper part of Seteth’s length. There, he let his fingernails softly just about graze against the head of Seteth’s cock.

Seteth shivered under him at the sensation. A shiver that made Jeralt even hungrier for Seteth’s kisses. For a taste of the other man. For the cool yet soft sensation to crash against Jeralt’s own skin.

“Seteth,” he whispered. “Are you okay? Is this—“ Seteth let out a deep and low chuckle.

“We’re already here,” he said quietly, his voice was barely audible yet it was everything to Jeralt at that moment. It was, until Seteth said his next words.

“I -- I want to remember you.”

He said, words forced out of him with choked difficulty. Words, that Jeralt took in.  
He too, wanted to remember Seteth. Wanted to remember Seteth. At least, if he could not be with Seteth tomorrow, he wanted to have that much.

No more words were needed. Jeralt took kisses from Seteth once more. Kisses were something he realized he could never have enough of. That he had to take, as much as possible while he could, now.

His hand trailed to Seteth’s back, middle finger finding Seteth’s hole.

It would barely fit, Jeralt realized. And from the way Seteth let out a displeased gasp within their kiss, it wasn’t comfortable.

Lube. That was what they needed.

But Jeralt had not come to the cathedral expecting this. He guessed, neither had Seteth, because Seteth made no effort to stop him at that moment despite his discomfort.

As flattered as he was that Seteth wanted him regardless, this wasn’t how he wanted it.

He parted with Seteth once more, lips feeling lonely, skin feeling like it was just separated from the air it needed so badly. He inhaled and exhaled roughly, and with his glazed, barely focused eyes he glanced around the room, wondering if there was anything he could use.

He was not expecting to find anything. No, it was a foolish hope. And Seteth clung to him anyway, to his arms like it shouldn’t matter.

But then his eyes fell upon exactly what he was looking for. A clay bottle containing ceremonial oil.

Some of the devotees would use it when they prayed to the statues of the saints, and the church of Seiros had provided it by default. It was a good image for them to be so generous and Jeralt knew from meetings that it actually cost them next to nothing, thanks to a deal they struck with the eastern merchant.

Yep, it was cheap enough and often-used enough no one would miss some of it.

He fumbled down to reach for it. Seteth raised an eyebrow, grasping the idea of what Jeralt was about to do right away yet seemingly unsure whether or not he agreed.

But he didn’t stop Jeralt.

Jeralt opened the clay bottle, spilling the oil on to his hand.

“Lady Rhea would excommunicate you if she knew of this,” Seteth mumbled, but he placed his arms comfortably around Jeralt’s neck again as Jeralt resumed where they were.

A kiss, as he pushed his middle finger into Seteth’s hole. This time, it slipped in easier thanks to the oil. This time, Seteth trembled in his arms, all without a pained noise on his lips.

Jeralt moved his finger inside Seteth, careful as he attempted to loosen Seteth up. When he felt that Seteth was comfortable enough with a single digit, he pushed his index finger inside as well.

Two digits scissored inside of Seteth, each movement as large and slow as he could, he was so aware of how he was inside Seteth, even if it was just his fingers. So aware of how the muscles around his fingers were tight but needily clenching around his fingers.

“Jeralt,” Seteth said, voice husky and low. “I think that’s—“ 

“No,” Jeralt stopped Seteth before he could finish.

He should probably rush through this. Probably, to make sure that he didn’t ?? the goddess and saints any further. Probably should be more afraid of being caught even if he told Seteth earlier no one will come in. Probably should be kind to his own hard cock that desperately wanted attention.

But he didn’t care about all of that right now. He only cared about Seteth in front of him. He only cared about prolonging this moment between them.

Jeralt buried his face in the crook of Seteth’s neck, biting down on his skin, leaving a mark as he put in another finger into Seteth. His fingers moved faster now, stretching Seteth. He listened to the soft and restrained moans that Seteth let out, trying to remember each and every sound as he indulged himself with Seteth’s skin, kissing and biting and leaving marks he knew would disappear one day, but may remain at least until tomorrow.

Then, when he was satisfied, he drew his fingers out of Seteth.

Seteth whined as the fingers he had grown used to left him, but Jeralt quickly unhooked his pants, revealing his hard cock.

Seteth’s breath hitched. He turned around, steadying his hand against the base of the statue.

Jeralt took in the sight, of Seteth, naked and wanting him. Once more, ?? of how beautiful Seteth looked in the pale orange light from the candles. Once more, to remember everything until the next time they met.

He took a deep breath before closing up that small space between them again, placing a tender kiss against a bite mark he left on Seteth’s neck just moments before.

Seteth shivered in anticipation with Jeralt right before him, drawing out a small, pleased chuckle from Jeralt.

Then, he used his hand to guide his hard cock inside of Seteth.

Despite Seteth being well stretched out by his fingers, Seteth was still tight around him. It still took time for Jeralt’s length to fill him up, slowly and steadily thrusting up inside Seteth.

Just as his whole length was inside of Seteth, Seteth let out a muffled moan.  
Jeralt wanted to move right there, roughly and suddenly, to hear more, to stop Seteth from muffling his own voice, to hear Seteth’s voice loud, echoing in this chamber that they were using as their own.

But he let Seteth adjust himself to being filled up by Jeralt’s entire length first.

Their breaths arrhythmic against each other, their bodies fitting into each other. Jeralt could fall into how comfortable they were right there and then. Almost forget where they were, if it wasn’t for the second he glanced up slightly to see Saint Cichol’s face right above them.

“You’re beautiful,” he muttered while he looked up at the statue. Then, kissing Seteth’s shoulder, snuggled close against Seteth’s back, he said it again, quieter, deeper, with the kind of husky tone he didn’t know could quite roll off his tongue.

“Beautiful.”

“You’re-“ Seteth started, he stopped, settling to stroke Jeralt’s hair instead. He was something, Jeralt knew, and he was content with Seteth’s touch. Content without the ending of that sentence.

He began to move, he drew his cock out before slamming right back inside Seteth.  
Seteth’s moan grew louder then, bit by bit as the other man struggled to control himself. It encouraged Jeralt to continue, encouraged Jeralt to go faster even if he wanted to take his time with all of this.

Besides, each thrust made it clear in his mind that this was truly what he wanted. 

Confirmed to himself that this was better than anything he had expected.

He held back two words, _don’t go_ as he thrust deeply inside Seteth one last time; Seteth’s voice raised up and filled the chambers as Jeralt spilled his seed inside of him.

“You’re-” Alois said as he was leaving the captain’s room. “Still in a mood. A different mood, though.” Jeralt huffed back. There was nothing for him to say to that.

He had woken up before dawn under the foot of the statue of Saint Cichol, covered with his own jacket. He was alone and, while he felt a sinking disappointment at being alone, he knew he should have expected that much.

After getting dressed he visited Seteth’s room, but, again, just as he expected, the room had been tidied up as if Seteth was just a dream and no one had ever stayed in that room.

The stable too, was empty of Seteth’s wyvern.

When he met Rhea for his morning report, she had given him a sad smile.

He wondered if she knew. If she knew how he was drawn to her friend, how they had made love in the cathedral, how much he wanted Seteth to stay.

But Rhea said nothing, showed nothing beyond that soft sad smile. “You want to talk about it?” Alois asked.

Jeralt shook his head.

“Not today,” he said.

Or perhaps not ever. Not to Alois. Not about this.

In all ways, Jeralt moved on from Seteth. He met a woman, he fell in love, they had a child and eventually, he left the monastery with said child.

But in the years he spent falling in love with someone else, he had thought of Seteth every now and then. He had compared kisses to those he shared with Seteth, once in a while.

And when he left the monastery he thought of Seteth less and less. Being a mercenary took time. Being a father to a quiet, strange child took even more. Byleth barely reacted to anything, and Jeralt tried his best to be father to a child he had not expected to be this way.

It would be almost two decades later that he would meet Seteth again.

“Still into looking at the statues, I see,” the voice came from behind him, heavy and familiar.

Jeralt glanced back to see the green-haired man standing right in front of him in those modest robes. He stood calmly here, in front of Jeralt in the hall of statues as if what happened between them years ago was nothing but a figment of Jeralt’s imagination.

Jeralt chuckled.

“And you’re working here now?” Jeralt said. “Since when?”

Since after Jeralt left, Jeralt knew that much. He waited for Seteth before moving on. Waited for Seteth in the back of his mind even when he thought he had moved on.  
Seteth did not answer him. He stood beside Jeralt quietly, keeping his distance so their hands didn’t even brush against each other.

The silence between them no longer fit.

But there they remained, in a hall of statues, that for a night they had made theirs.


End file.
